A Thing Of Beauty
by emmalamia
Summary: 19th century fic. Jean Prouvaire is an aspiring poet who is sponsored by the Chanteux family, where he can write for a living. However, when he meets the youngest Chanteux son, Courfeyrac, he realises that living in the household will be a lot harder - and a lot more rewarding - than he'd originally thought.


**Well, this is my first story for this pairing (i.e. Jean/Courfeyrac) and yeah. **

**Warnings: Alcohol consumption (if this is a trigger for you I'd like to add that there will probably be alcohol in every chapter, just as a warning.) **

**I've set this in the early 19****th**** Century, which happens to be my favourite era of poetry (because Keats and Shelley and Byron and all the French Romantics like Dumas who were fantastic too) **

**Title of both this fic and this chapter comes from the opening of John Keats' Endymion: Book I **

**In terms of smut, I'm really bad at writing smut so unless someone helps me write it there will be no smut in this fic. If you do want to help me write smut, please tell me and we can organise some kind of smut community. (I've said smut too many times. Oh well.)**

**If anyone wants a mix of songs to go with this just ask I guess.**

***.*.***

**One: A Thing Of Beauty**

***.*.***

Jean had been writing for years, since he was a young boy. He wrote about love and loss, about nature and families and all sorts of things. He had indeed written a few novels in his time, written some songs even. But his favourite medium was poetry.

Jean came from a poor family. He could hardly afford to write for a living and his family encouraged him to learn more practical skills, such as farming or selling goods. Jean did these things; and then, when the work was done, Jean wrote. He wrote, and wrote, and wrote.

His sister read some of his works. She loved them so much that she told some of her friends about him. Only her friends who could read, of course, as not many could. Mr Prouvaire, Jean's father, wanted his children to be able to read. He was unlike other men of his time and believed, in fact, that _all_ children should read.

As for Jean… Well, he was raised in a climate of poverty which made him was mildly cynical. However, in spite of this, he secretly believed in soul mates and terribly trivial matters of the heart.

So when his family received a letter regarding his writing from the wealthy Chanteux family, Jean was secretly very hopeful and very grateful. He wrote a poem that evening, thanking Nature for her gift to him. Two weeks later, he had packed up the small amount of belongings he owned and stepped into the carriage sent to his house from the Chanteux household.

On the way, he nervously checked his appearance. He was thin to the point where his wrist bones clearly protruded. When his dress shirt was removed, his ribcage glared at him like an ugly reminder of his family's poverty. His hair was the colour of the hay that his father fed the horses. His eyes were blue-grey and, overall, he thought his appearance was quite ordinary. He hoped with all his heart that he was enough for this family, that he could earn a living with them to send money back to them.

He adjusted his moth-eaten suit and the out-dated hat he had borrowed from his father.

"Alright sir, we've arrived." The driver announced a little while later.

Jean nodded and thanked the driver before leaving the carriage. The sight that greeted him almost made him gape with awe.

It was a castle, really. The building was gargantuan and Jean felt like an ant compared to the size of the door, even. Someone escorted him inside, a servant or someone similar, Jean was too shocked to notice. His house was small and humble. This place was too big for him.

Mr Chanteux greeted him and introduced him to the family.

"This is Mme Chanteux and my children – my eldest daughter Valerie, soon to be married." The woman, who looked at least twenty and five years, smiled at Jean.

"This is my first son, Alexander, also soon to be married." The man next to her, at least twenty and three years, raised one eyebrow. He was far too formal for Jean's liking, but then again Jean was hardly expected to like any of them. He merely had to write for them, and perform.

Mr Chanteux continued. "And my youngest son…" Mr Chanteux trailed off, frowning silghtly. "My son, Courfeyrac, seems to be absent at the moment."

Alexander cleared his throat. "If I may, father, I do believe he said he had very important business to attend to."

Mr Chanteux rolled his eyes. "And you expect me to believe that?"

"Mr Chanteux!" Mme Chanteux hissed. "Not in front of our guest!"

Jean smiled, as friendly as possible. "My family loses siblings all the time to business, I'm not offended at all."

Valerie returned his smile but the rest of the Chanteuxs seemed indifferent to his reply, so worried about this 'Courfeyrac' that they cared for nothing else.

"Yes, well," Mr Chanteux sighed, "I suppose we'd best get you settled in. Alex? Do you mind?"

Alexander shrugged and departed without even hesitating to check if Jean was following him. Jean grabbed his bag of clothes and followed quickly, trying to keep up with Alexander's gait.

"So, this house is quite big." Jean huffed, trying to keep up. "Do you have a map? I may need one."

Alexander sighed. "You will grow accustomed to our house, I assure you. Other artists have lived here before. They all survived."

"I'm glad of it!" Jean tried to get a laugh from the boy.

He got nothing.

One hour later, after settling himself into the room and unpacking his items, he sat on his small bed and pondered. Was it worth it, being at this place? No one seemed too friendly, save Valerie, although Mr Chanteux had said that she was to be married and would thus be leaving soon.

He sighed and reclined on his bed. Perhaps the money was a shallow reason to write for these people. Jean was an artist, first and foremost. His work was to be enjoyed, not to be regarded with a cold apathy.

Before he could ponder any more, a servant was at his bedroom door, calling him for dinner.

The servant led him to the dining room. Jean was silent and glum the whole way, dragging his feet and sighing dramatically. When he reached the room, Mr Chanteux gestured for him to take the spot across from himself. Alexander was to his left, an empty space to his right. Mme Chanteux, dressed in an exquisite green dress, smiled at him. Valerie, next to her mother in a periwinkle blue dress, also smiled.

"I hope you enjoy the food here, Mr Prouvaire." Mme Chanteux stated.

Jean nodded. "I'm sure it will be excellent, Madame."

The food arrived, steaming hot roast with carrots and potatoes. Jean was starving and could hardly wait to eat, but Mr Chanteux had other ideas.

"We must wait for Courfeyrac!" He demanded.

So they waited for Courfeyrac.

One hour later, the food had gone cold. Mme Chanteux looked irritated, Alexander looked angry. Valerie was glum. Mr Chanteux, however, was fuming. Jean could understand them. If a member of his family had been late to dinner, forcing them all to wait, Jean would have been just as mad.

Finally, a servant announced the arrival of Courfeyrac. Everyone stood to greet the boy and…

Jean almost sighed in exasperation himself. Courfeyrac was drunk and dishevelled. He looked like a common thief. He was handsome, though, Jean could not deny that. He had bright brown eyes, dark chestnut hair which was ruffled and mussed. His smile was mischievous, his sleeves rolled to his elbows.

"Mother! Father! How are you? Oh, and my favourite sister, Val, how are you _mon cherie?_ Alexander, you old lout. And…. Who's this?"

Courfeyrac's eyes hovered over Jean in a way that made Jean feel strange. He felt as though Courfeyrac was mentally pulling him apart, eyes devouring Jean's figure.

Jean frowned. "My name is Jean Prouvaire."

"Jean is our new client, brother." Valerie chimed. "He will write for us and perform his poetry."

Courfeyrac laughed. "Because the past three _clients_ were so well appreciated, were they not, father?"

"Oh be quiet you foolish boy!" Mr Chanteux hissed. "We waited for you to start dinner. Our food has gone cold waiting for you, and you arrive here drunk and looking like an unwashed _boar_."

Courfeyrac's smile flickered. "I expected you to start without me, seeing as you usually do."

Jean could feel an uncomfortable silence descend upon the room. He saw Alexander's disappointed shake of his head, Mme Chanteux's irritated scowl. He took the opportunity to study Courfeyrac, the way his forearms were just on the perfect side of defined, the way his teeth chewed at his bottom lip.

Jean studied Courfeyrac and felt something different from what he usually felt when he studied people. He felt flustered.

"I am terribly sorry Jean." Mme Chanteux said, quietly seething, "but dinner will be _postponed_ for a short period of time. I will send someone to escort you to you room-"

"Please, allow me," Courfeyrac murmured, "since this is of my making. Allow me to escort our poet to his chambers."

Mr Chanteux said nothing. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and gestured for Jean to follow him from the room. Jean glanced back at the Chanteuxs before following.

"So, a poet, eh?" Courfeyrac stated. His voice was deep and melodious, now that Jean could truly listen to it.

"Er, yes. I am a poet. I write novels as well, and I compose music. But poetry is my forte."

"Just as drinking and fucking is mine!" Courfeyrac scoffed bitterly. Jean recoiled slightly and Courfeyrac, noticing this, frowned with concern. "I'm terribly sorry if I offended you. I never intended for that. I am a little bit drunk and very bitter tonight; ignore me."

Jean sighed. "I'm not offended, just taken aback. Are you always so open about your feelings?"

"Yes, of course. I enjoy living honestly." Courfeyrac said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice and the hint of a smirk around his lips.

Jean smiled and replied: "Well, at least you will never bore me."

Courfeyrac laughed deeply, the sound echoing off the walls. "I must say, you're hilarious, for a poet."

"For a poet?" Jean scoffed. "Need I say that many poets make their living from being humorous."

"Oh, really? How does that work?" Courfeyrac replied.

Jean shrugged. "They write such awful poems, everyone is forced to laugh."

Courfeyrac shook his head amusedly. "What did you say your name was again?"

"Jean."

"Jehan?" Courfeyrac frowned. "Hmm. I like that name."

"No, my name is _Jean_…" Jean sighed. "Jean Prouvaire."

Courfeyrac grinned. "Pardon? _Jehan_ did you say?"

Jean groaned with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "You mock me."

"Jean is too boring for a poet. Jehan is much nicer." Courfeyrac smiled sheepishly.

When they got to Jean's room, Courfeyrac seemed just as reluctant to part as Jean did.

"I will fetch you when dinner is revived." Courfeyrac stated. "And we can continue our little discussion."

Jean nodded. "I must thank you for escorting me."

Courfeyrac nodded curtly but remained in the same place, leaning against Jean's door frame, blocking the entrance.

"I am terribly sorry for ruining your dinner." Courfeyrac said quietly, averting his eyes. "I always seem to cause strife without intending to."

"It was no offense to me," Jean replied, "though I do think you owe your family an apology."

"I owe them nothing!" Courfeyrac hissed darkly.

Jean flinched and grimaced from the malice in Courfeyrac's voice.

Courfeyrac sighed sadly. "It seems I am bad company this evening, Jehan. Perhaps I shall send a servant to fetch you later. You must be disappointed in this family so far-"

Jean shook his head. "Not at all. I am… I am pleased."

Courfeyrac studied him again, dragged his eyes across Jean's figure, and smiled. "I hope you stay longer than the others did, Jehan."

Courfeyrac left then, without another word.

Later, when dinner had been remade, a servant came to fetch Jean.

Courfeyrac was nowhere to be found, neither during dinner nor afterwards.

Jean realised, in that moment, his lot for the next few years. This family was certainly odd. However, with the new addition of Courfeyrac, Jean realised that it would be worthwhile staying to work in this large house. For money was a shallow reason to write but there would be no fear of cold apathy in this household – at least, when Courfeyrac was there, anyway.


End file.
